“Mind yer mouth,” someone hissed.
Neil heard it all. He kept his face neutral and his hands busy.
Another guard came on. Neil feinted right and knocked his blade aside. The guard recovered quickly and tried to trap him near the fence. Neil ducked, turned, and hooked his ankle with a boot. Down again.
“Up,” he ordered.
The guard pushed himself to his feet, winded.
Neil pointed his blade at the line of guards. “Ye are too slow. Ye are too proud. Ye forget that a fight is short when a man doesnae give ye time.”
He stepped back and let his sword tip fall. His chest heaved as the sun warmed the back of his neck. Sweat trickled down his spine and stung old wounds. He rolled his shoulder once to keep the joint from locking and felt a tug. He clenched his teeth against it.
Lachlan wiped his brow with the back of his hand and lowered his blade. He eyed Neil narrowly, as if seeing something he did not like.
“What in God’s name happened to ye in the past five years?” he asked quietly. “I daenae ken how to explain it, but ye have changed. A lot.”
Neil did not answer.
A gull cried from the wall, and the stable bell chimed once, breaking the silence. The guards at the fence went still, as if the yard were a church and someone had spoken too loudly.
A young guard found his nerve and stepped in. Neil raised his sword. They met in the middle. One, two, three. The guard’s blade spun free and hit the ground. Neil’s point rested at his throat for a breath, then lifted and fell away.
“Train, all of ye,” he barked. “Then come back.”
The guard nodded and stumbled off, his cheeks flushed.
Neil glanced up at the tower and saw the tall window on the upper floor. But he did not let his gaze linger. He knew better than to search the glare for the shape of a woman who might be watching.
He rested his sword on his shoulder.
“Enough,” Lachlan hissed. “Or else ye will break the men before dinner.”
“They need hardening,” Neil insisted.
“They need a laird who sleeps and eats,” Lachlan countered. “And ye look like ye bit iron.”
“Then the iron kens its place,” Neil said. “I cannae say the same for most of thesemen.”
Lachlan exhaled and sheathed his sword. “Aye. And if the iron could speak, it would ask what set ye on fire, and why the flames look a lot like a lass.”
Neil’s lips thinned. “I told ye, this isnae about her.”
“Aye.” Lachlan’s tone was mild, though the look in his eyes was not. “And I am telling ye, perhaps it needs to be.”
With that, he turned around and made his way back to the castle.
Neil stood in the center of the yard, the guard’s whispers swirling around him. He felt strong. He felt hollow. He felt the question hang where everyone could see it, but no one dared to ask it.
If he could fight like this, why did he nae break free sooner?
Kristen stood at the tall window with both hands on the sill. Sun struck the steel below, and Neil moved through the ring like a blade that had found its purpose. Each swing was sharp and exact, and each lunge drove the men back a step.
The wound in his shoulder would not like it, but the fool did not seem to care.
“He will bleed again,” she muttered. “The damn idiot.”
She was also scolding herself.
